By John Y. Brown III, on Fri Nov 9, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
Ultimate Friday questions …..of life, the universe and everything.
Most are never solved.
A few–from time to time–can be approximated. We get a handle on them. But no more. That’s about the best we can hope for.
As we get older and wisdom replaces impatience and impertinence, we can even celebrate those moments when we merely approximate the ultimate truth of some timeless conundrum.
Recently, I had a momentary insight, a breakthrough, if you will on one such timeless question that had forever remained and enigmatic and unsolvable riddle to me.
You’ll recognize it instantly. As well as be reminded of the mind-numbing circles the question has put your mind through over the years.
“How much wood does a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood?”
My answer?
First, in the short run, it no longer matters because with the internet flattening our global economy there are now wood chucks on the other side of the world—hungry, talented and tireless wood chucks—who will do three times the work at a fraction of the pay. Making the American woodchuck more of a drain on our economy who will have to develop more diverse, creative and less routinized talents–just to survive.
The real question is what “value adds” and “intangible values” the American woodchuck can bring to his work in the future to even remain relevant. And as much as I don’t like even going there, we have to face the fact that most wood based products will soon be replaced by superior digital substitutes.
But now I’m over-thinking it.
I’m not saying this is “the answer.” I’m only saying it’s a approximate of “an answer.” But it’s something and will free our mind up to ponder other–even deeper–questions
By John Y. Brown III, on Thu Nov 8, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
Politics and summer camp.
I guess my father was right. Funny, it took 36 years for me to understand clearly the point he was making.
When I was 13 years old I went to summer camp in North Carolina for seven weeks. I didn’t want to go but once I got there loved it. I had the time of my life, made new friends, and didn’t want to leave when it was time to come home.
The night before camp ended there was an awards ceremony. Sort of like senior superlatives in high school. I’m sure most every camper got an award but I was covetous toward the award I was expecting. I had overheard the counselors say I wasn’t going to get “Best basketball player” (which is what I wanted). But I would get “Best all-round athlete.” At first, it sounded like a made-up consolation prize. But the more I thought about it, the more I liked the way it sounded. And maybe I did deserve it. I thought of my highlights that summer in kick-ball, softball, soccer, hide-and-seek with a flashlight, treading water for 30 minutes, Zip line, and dodge ball and decided it was an even better award than what I had originally hoped for—and now I wanted it even more than the initial award I desired. And couldn’t wait to hang it in my bedroom back home for all my friends to see.
And now the moment had arrived. I could tell the master of ceremonies was talking about me. I was so excited when he called my name I didn’t even listen for the title of the award. I just went up front, took the hand-carved and hand-painted award (about the size of a miniature license plate, and sat down jubilant.
Until I looked down and read what what I had won. “Best Sportsmanship Award” was written in what looked like green and yellow nail polish. What?!!? What happened? How did I go from potential “best basketball player” to “best all-round athlete” to this? Who wants to be a good sport? I mean, that’s just saying I am a pleasant loser, right? And seems to imply I am bad at every sport since I have to be so nice about losing all the time—and I must lose a lot to stand out enough for an award for how well I do it!
I felt about the same way I did as when I was at Bruce Zimlich’s second grade birthday party at Lyndon Lanes bowling alley and his mother gave my a prize even though I had the lowest bowling score of any of the kids at the party.
She explained, “I had won!”
“But how?” I asked, remembering my abysmal score and frequent gutter balls.
“Well, John, it’s called a ‘Booby Prize.’ It’s the prize for finishing in last place” she said smiling, trying to put a happy face on my “award.”
“How awesome,” I probably thought to myself sarcastically. And looking at my sportsmanship award that night, I was having similar thoughts.
But when my father saw the award tossed to the corner of my bedroom desk, he picked it up and praised me for it. He effused about how important it was in life to always be a good sport, to be “man enough” (person enough) to shake hands and congratulate the winner and never to sulk or whine or start making excuses for when you lost. Or gloat when you won. And recited from memory a poem he and my grandfather liked –one of those inspirational sports poems that drove the point home.
I believed some of it, I guess. But not all. Until tonight.
I was reflecting on the 2000 and the 2012 presidential elections. Hard fought battles with so much seemingly on the line for the two major political parties and their supporters.
I was a good sport in 2000 when the candidate I voted for lost in a heartbreakingly tight election. And I didn’t gloat when the candidate I supported won in a similarly close election last Tuesday. And it made me think about my “Best Sportsmanship” award at summer camp in 1976. Finally, all these years later, I realized it was a good award to receive and something to be proud of. And that being a good sport in life really is important. Just like my dad said. No matter how old you are.
By John Y. Brown III, on Tue Nov 6, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
A momentous occasion. Historic even.
Today…. is Election Day.
And Election Day will be followed by Wednesday….and, if all goes as planned, followed by Thursday. Short of cataclysmic fallout on Tuesday night, Thursday more than likely will be followed by Friday. And then we will probably see something resembling what we used to call “the weekend.” …
And then Monday. And we’ll return to tilling our individual gardens.
And so on.
I’m guessing this will be how it play out anyway.
In anticipation of this overblown occasion, I sent this message to a friend this morning who is a great person and someone who I like and admire a lot –and who, coincidentally, is working hard to elect political candidates with different views from the ones I support.
“Let’s get something down for late next week or the following week…..Mid morning on Thur or Fri are best for me. Will be a wild and wooly week for sure! But when it’s all over, the votes are counted, and the dust settles, people will still need to drink caffeine together. That much I know…. ; )”
There’s not much else I know about the next week or two. But I do know that.
And it’s more important to know that than we probably think. I guess what I’m trying to say is that this is a “big” week.
But not because we will have chosen as a country the president and vice-president for the next four years. But because we will return focus to our daily lives.
Where we have the most impact. And where we actually live.
By John Y. Brown III, on Mon Nov 5, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
Embracing my masculinity.
Last night going through the drive thru at Taco Bell I ordered a common order for me: 3 tacos. But for some reason the automatic follow-up question caught my attention in a different way than ever before.
“Would you like those tacos soft or hard shell?”
I paused for a few seconds wondering, “What does it say about a person who chooses “soft” over “hard” shell? Or vice versa?
Maybe “soft” taco types tend to be liberal and soft –almost effeminate. And maybe “hard” shell taco types are more conservative politically, like to stick with tradition and the status quo and more manly sounding food options.
And then I thought, Besides, that seems like a very personal question anyway.”
I was interrupted in deep thought, “Sir, soft or hard shell?”
I was relieved I got a sir and not a “ma’am” which happens more than I’d like to admit.
So, I dug deep for my lowest, slowest, manliest hard shell taco voice, and played it safe, “Hard shell” I said, Almost as if it was an insult to be asked. And to emphasize the kind of gringo they were dealing with, I added, “And make that a regular, not diet coke.”
I was relieved I hadn’t put an Obama bumper sticker on my car yet, which could have undermined the entire subliminal impact of my dinner order.
Sometimes men just have to get in touch with that primitive part of their masculinity—of what makes us men.
No apologies.
It’s a nature thing that modern social customs can limit but not remove. And last night I embraced it.
And if anyone in the Taco Bell kitchen overheard my order and my voice–and the “regular coke” exclamation point I added, it was unmistakeable that, yeah, that’s right, there was one bad alpha male about to pull up at the drive thru window.
By John Y. Brown III, on Thu Nov 1, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
A couple months ago I took my awesomely cool and stupendously hip daughter on a father – daughter weekend.
She had a choice of a modestly priced event in a reasonably nearby city.
Her choice? Lollapalooza in Chicago How could I say no? I mean, Anthony Kiedis and I are practically soul-mates. We are both about 50 years old, both like the RHCP , think Flea is cool and many, many other similarities too.
There were no other father – daughter couples we could ask to take a good picture of us. So this is as good as I could get.
Was it fun?
It was a disastrous blast.
Maggie is always game and willing to find the possibilities amidst the most unusual circumstances—like hanging with pop at an outdoor rock concert trying to replicate Woodstock with thousands of muddy, sloshed 17-24 year olds. And a 14 and 49 year old.
Oh, I got to see Anthony Kiedas, albeit from several hundred feet away.
I don’t think he saw me, but knowing my soul-mate was alive and well and jammin’ with Flea, made me smile. ; )
By John Y. Brown III, on Wed Oct 31, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
I was once a millionaire.
Not for long. But for about a year. And I only recently found out about it. Even though it happened some 40 years ago, I find myself reflecting a lot recently on that year—“My Big Year.” And asking myself, what went wrong and what can I learn from it?
In 1971 my father sold his controlling interest in Kentucky Fried Chicken. He made a good deal of money and, as the story goes,
created a $1M trust for each of his three children, my two sisters (Sissy and Sandy) and me.
Which was a surprise hearing about all these years later since my father reminded us regularly growing up that he didn’t believe in giving his children money because it would take away their motivation. But this one time, he apparently did. (In my teens I once suggested he test his theory by doing a pilot project with me as the one child who gets money–and my two sisters as the control groups— and see how I do. “If I fail,” I reasoned, “you can continue with your current policy and be reassured by recent supporting data that you are doing the right thing.” But all I got was a laugh.)
Anyway, I was 8 years old at the time and totally oblivious to the fact that I was a millionaire. At least I was “on paper,” as a lot of millionaires seem to be fond of saying. I’m not sure what that means but I like the sound of it and so I’m repeating it here.
Read the rest of… John Y’s Musings from the Middle: I Once Was a Millionaire
By John Y. Brown III, on Tue Oct 30, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
“When I was a child….I spake as a child….but when I became an adult, I still wanted to sound younger than I really am.”
Really.
There probably should be a rule that people over, say, age 34 shouldn’t be allowed to use hip lingo. Because it never sounds as good as hoped when a midster (or beyond) tries using new jargon. And often goes far worse than was foreseen as possible.
For example, the other night while in California, a hypothetical person (we’ll say “a friend”) was overheard trying to use the terminology “Hooked up” while talking to several younger colleagues.
“So, a couple years later they hooked up again in New York. Not, like, the modern “hooking up” but, you know, the more….the older…I mean more traditional meaning of hooking up. I mean. They didn’t …I’m not saying they, like, you….ha…um….you know. I don’t mean intimately. It’s possible, isn’t it, to hook up and not be about sex, right?”
Colleague: “It can.”
Hypothetical person (friend): “OK. That’s the kind of hooking up I was trying to infer..I mean imply. So, anyway….the more traditional meaning of hooking up. I tell you what….Let me start over. Do you know what “meet up” means?”
Colleague: “Yes.”
Hypothetical person (friend): “OK, They met up in New York….Just forget my whole experiment with trying to fit “hooked up” into my story. It was a bad idea.”
By John Y. Brown III, on Mon Oct 29, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
Another day traveling by air.
Another day with mild to modest frustration with a major airline.
The major airlines seem more and more to remind me of a old school ma’arm, just waiting to slap you on the wrist for something inconsequential.
Mostly because they enjoy doing it…
And another day, thankfully, salvaged by Southwest.
The new cool substitute teacher that all the students love. And all the school marmy teachers hate. ; )
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In SouCal airports you see a lot of people who look like celebrities, carry themselves like a celebrity , and who want to be confused for a celebrity–but who are not a celebrity.
I think it’s fun.
The fun part for me is staring at them awestruck and looking like, carrying myself like and wanting to be confused for one of their fans.
=======
It smells good in California.
Even in the airport.
Clean.
It’s like people here shower two or three times a day.
Or use some sort of New Age magnetic device that repels dirt and dust and prevents perspiration.
It’s not quite human.
Like a fresh fruity well-toned Droid who just finished another colon cleanse.
I somehow worry that people I say hi too will suspect I don’t smell like one of them and know I’m not from here.
The low level humming from my iPhone from the Black Crowes isn’t helping any either
==========
It’s a dog’s life —not!
Remember the bleak saying about every down-and-outer getting their moment, “Every dog has it’s day”? I doubt that gets used in SoCal.
As I pulled out of the airport into San Diego last night the one thing I noticed over….and over…. and, yes, over again…was the privileged life that dogs lead out here.
At least one in three people I saw out last night in a suburb near downtown San Diego were walking their well-groomed, poised and, frankly, self-confident dog(s). Not in a cutesy or ostentatious way, like Paris Hilton carrying a tiny lap dog in her purse as a sort of panting accoutrement. Rather it was a normal person finally acting like the “dog’s best friend” we’ve always promised to be but—as any dog you know will tell you—have not lived up to.
And that attention and connection with their human shows, too—shows in the way SoCal dogs carry themselves and interact with other dogs—and even humans. They have a carriage about them which says, “Welcome to my town. Notice my owner. Pretty cool guy, huh?” It’s like the dogs are as self-conscious of who is walking them as their owners are about impressing others with their choice and type and breed of dog.
It’s darn near like the dogs out her are treated as a separate but co-equal species to humans. When you see a person and their dog on a chain walking, it’s not like back home. It’s like a couple out to get ice cream. Sure, the human appears to have control of the leash, but I suspect if you look closely it’s some sort of mutual canine-human leash that lets the two co-equal species stay together but without holding hands, or paws.
Oh, and dogs aren’t left outside here when their human pet goes into a store. No hitching post for these darlings. The dog walks in with every right to be there as anybody else. And seems a little impatient because there isn’t a larger canine section.
And as much as I hate to admit it, these dogs can be intimidating to people visiting from out of town. A strong-and-silent type pit bull was in Rite Aid last night with a cute young couple for a walk. The dog was well-manicured and obviously a female because it had a little bow in the corner of its well-coiffed mane. She began sniffing me—not like other dogs…but slyly as if by accident— and I instantly felt self-conscious when the dog looked up at me with these soft but probing and judgmental eyes. Although my new domesticated pit bull acquaintance didn’t say these exact words out loud, she was clearly thinking “You’re not from around here, are you? What….what kind of –whatever it is that you are….are you? And don’t even think about cutting in front of us in line. I’ll bite you and humiliate you in front of everyone. I’m still a dog, you know. Are we clear?”
I nodded affirmatively to the dog. I recovered my bearings long enough to realize something wasn’t quite right and mumbled, “Nice bow.”
The dog’s head whipped around as if to say, “What was that?!” “What?” I said. “I didn’t say anything.” The human owners looked oddly at me.
I offered, “Sorry. I wasn’t talking to you.”
It was the first time in a very long time that I felt like Junior from Hee-Haw stammering for something to say and knowing it would not be something appropriate or helpful. So I just kept quiet. And let this dog have its day. Like it does everyday in SoCal.
Read the rest of… John Y’s Musings from the Middle: Travels to SoCal
Ultimate Friday questions …..of life, the universe and everything.
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